


Jagged Crown

by devil_wears_converse



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:06:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7891543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devil_wears_converse/pseuds/devil_wears_converse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ulfric Stormcloak has succeeded in taking Skyrim from the Empire, and now holds Elisif the Fair prisoner in her own palace. With the Thalmor now wanting Elisif's life, can the two put aside their differences and fight back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victory

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to FF.Net back in 2011 and left unfinished. I went back and forth on whether or not to completely rewrite the series, but instead decided to post the original here and work off of that. Because of this, the first five chapters are pretty old and may read different from later chapters. Thanks!

_Chapter 1: Victory _

Ulfric's beloved blade rested in his clutched hand, stained with the blood of his bitter long-time adversary, Tullius.

The man he considered the unseen tyrant of the Empire was nothing more than dead weight, lying motionless at Ulfric's feet. Tullius' severed head was resting on the other side of the room. The aroma of blood filled the air, and no doubt the walls were covered.

Galmar Stone-Fist boasted victory while their prospect, Mortan, stood silent with Ulfric. Mortan eyed his mentor, but Ulfric dared not to make eye contact. He knew the shame Mortan was feeling, for he felt it, too.

To Ulfric, this wasn't a victory. Too many people died. Children's innocent lives had ended on the streets, and honorable soldiers such as Rekke died for doing exactly what Ulfric had been preaching through out the war; they stood up for what they believed in. Ulfric knew they weren't right, but how much different were they from him? Ulfric Stormcloak quietly sheathed his sword.

Galmar jumped at the metallic sound. "Ulfric?" He was confused. Sheathing your sword was a sign of defeat. There was no reason Ulfric should put it away after killing Tullius before raising his sword to his men in victory. He looked at his comrade, hoping for a visual answer. Mortan, the level-headed, quiet, and discerning Nord, looked back, saying nothing. Galmar watched in marvel as his dear friend Ulfric began to march outside with his boots splashing in the puddles blood.

Outside, thousands of Rebel soldiers cheered at the sight of their leader, joyous that it was he who walked out the doors alive. Ulfric placed himself in front of the crowed. While his face stood calm, his nerves shook with excitement. The pain in his heart was being lifted by the sound of every live Stormcloak that shouted. They cheered for freedom. They cheered for him.

Galmar stood by his friend and nudged him on the shoulder. "I think they're expecting a speech, eh?"

Ulfric smiled, and glanced over to Mortan, who smirked awkwardly and nodded. Their leader took a step forward to face his soldiers. The rebels weren't getting any quieter, the very fashion of a true Nord.

"Stormcloaks!" He bellowed with his rough hoarse voice, "I am Ulfric Stormcloak. By me is the one we call Mortan Stormblade. Others call us leaders... heroes... and the very arms of righteous! But they are wrong. We're nothing without the true arms of every one of you, who fought to protect our land and scour it from the men who wished to take away everything that made us who we are. They wanted our freedom, you denied them! They wanted our religion, you challenged their rights to do so. When the Thalmor broke the Empire to pieces and had them take away our gods, you strived to make them regret and understand. You let them know that this is our land, and we're her children!

You only have to thank yourselves. You didn't fight for me. You fought for yourselves! You fought for your culture, and your lives. You fought because you had to! And because of your dedication, we are free to decide our own fates!"

Every soldier became frenzied. He tried hard to match his voice above theirs. Before he could continue, a single shout from an unknown soldier caught his attention.

"What about Elisif?"

Ulfric's heart stopped. His eyes darted to the center of the crowd, searching. There, her eyes, her hateful eyes, caught him.

Elisif. How could he forget? Looking straight at her, he felt every jab of guilt in the world. He dreaded this moment, walking toward her, ignoring the suggestions of lynching and beheading from the crowd itself. She stared at him, never blinking, her face covered in dirt and blood of her people. The woman that people have called "Elisif the Fair" now stood before him, tired and broken. Her eyes brimmed with a hatred more powerful than she had ever felt before with this man. Ulfric kept a stern face. He never made a plan what to do with her. He loathed the moment he had to face her.

"Yes," He repeated, "What do we do with her. Do we kill her? Punish her for her late husband's crimes? Chastise her for her undying love to the Empire?"

Elisif's face was stern, and she tried hard not to cry out in tears. Even as the people around her clearly enjoyed the idea of her torture and demise.

"Or," Ulfric continued "would we stoop to her Empire's level?"

The soldiers silenced. Elisif looked up at Ulfric, in much confusion as everyone else. His smug expression made her body burn with disgust.

"Elisif, Jarl of Solitude. You can end this war. You can understand our cause, and submit to me and these soldiers."

The Jarl, beaten and bruised, answered quickly by spitting on his boots.

"I'll never surrender to you or your murderous barbarians!"

Ulfric Stormcloak raised his eyes from the spit on the ground. "What a waste." He came closer to her, closer than she would have liked, and if it weren't for the restraints she would have moved. He got to her ear, and talked soft so only she could hear him.

"Think about what you're doing, Elisif." He spoke calm. "People are dying over this. Tullius is gone. You have no one to depend on. You. Can't. Win."

The Jarl said nothing. Her heart sank to the floor at the thought of her people, the innocent people who got caught in the silly conflict. Tullius was suppose to be her last hope. Without him, the people would surely suffer. She breathed heavy, trying her hardest to keep everything in. She bit her tongue hard, but she couldn't stop the steady flow of tears. Elisif looked into the evil man's eyes. The man she hated more than anything in world. Her body shook with rage.

"F-fine." Elisif choked, "Fine, I surrender. You win. Just let my people be."

Ulfric smiled, and the Stormcloaks roared. He motioned to Mortan, who walked hastily to his Jarl. He whispered in his ear, much like he did with Elisif. "Prison her in her room. Keep her there until I decide what to do with her. Come down afterward for the feast."

* * *

The Blue Palace, once occupied with well-mannered nobles, was now filled with boasting Stormcloaks who seemed to have never learned table manners. They belched out songs, pounded their tables, and shouted with mouth's full, spitting food all over. While they sang the song of victory, Ulfric took his place, sitting at the end of the long-table. The soldiers were not only finding it miraculous that they had just taken over a whole capital city, but now their own "stone-faced" Ulfric was smiling and drinking himself.

"What a fine time, eh Ulfric?" Galmar nudged his superior with his mouth half full of chicken.

"Indeed," Ulfric agreed, and held his cup high in a toasting-manner, then downed it all at once. He wiped off his mouth and continued. "It better be a fine time to drink tonight, at least. Tomorrow we might not have this luxury once the Elves find out about this."

Galmar Stone-Fist swallowed his food. "Maybe. Why worry about it now?" He watched as Ulfric nodded, but could tell he pondered at the thought. "Still, I wonder about you."

Ulfric looked up. "Ey?"

"I wouldn't have let the lassie go so easy."

Stormcloak sighed. "And what would you have me do? Kill her like I killed Rikke and Tullius? The whole Empire would be at us more than they already are. Even the people seem to love her. They would surely revolt over her death."

Galmar nodded slowly. "Aye...I get it. She's the city's Icon. Maybe even the whole country. But that doesn't explain why you're holding her up as "Prisoner" in her own room. I'd expect you throwing her in the dungeon, at least.

Ulfric sat silent, no longer smiling. With as much pride as he had, he couldn't admit that he had no plan for her. He couldn't kill her, not like the Stormcloaks think he could. His ruthlessness had a limit. Although he would never say so to anyone, he could never kill a woman after taking her husband and city.

Not without a reason to do so, at least.

"Let me go!"

Mortan Storm-Blade struggled while he kept the woman in binds and dragging her across the hallway. He was known to be anything but nice. He was quiet and humble towards his superiors, but to enemies, he was ruthless. Elisif was his number one enemy now, especially after Tullius' demise. So it was no wonder that he was rough with the former Jarl as he grasped her bind hands tight. When he opened the room door, Mortan threw her in like a rag doll, watching as she grunted when falling to the ground.

"Stay in," He ordered.

Elisif coughed. The wind was knocked out of her. Even then, she had enough to cough up another insult in his face. "I suppose barbarians like you never heard of Chivalry? Manners, perhaps."

"Get off it. You're lucky my king placed you here and not in the pit." Mortan wouldn't dare look at her, instead helping a soldier fiddle with the door to lock it from the outside. "Now do whatever you princess' do while others fight your battles." He stopped to look at her, and added quietly, "As usual."

Elisif was speechless. She stayed silent as Mortan left, giving her no time to snap back. Instead, she was by herself, listening to him bar in the room so she couldn't get out. She looked around. Her room had everything a noble would want. Even so, Elisif the Fair, once Jarl of Solitude and former High Queen, was a prisoner.


	2. Ambush

_Chapter 2: Ambush_

"The Stormcloaks did _what?_ "

The Thalmor Captain, Elrohir, stood up from his seat and slammed his palms hard on his wooden desk. The poor Elven courier nearly jumped out of his skin, shaking at the sight of his angered superior.

"H-he defeated the Empire, sir," The courier repeated, "The Stormcloaks raided Solitude and...and drove them out. Tullius is dead, sir..."

Elrohir dropped back down into his chair, saying nothing. He was stunned. In his head, he was pondering the solutions to a problem he never thought possible. The Stormcloaks were never meant to defeat the Empire. They were merely supposed to weaken it.

"...Are you sure the Empire is gone?" He asked the courier after a few moments.

"Th-there's still a few I-Imperials camps, but the Empire is gone. There's n-no Imperial authority in Skyrim," He explained, then quickly added, "That I know of...sir..."

The Captain sighed deeply, pinching his nose in thought. "...Get Elenwen in here. Now."

The courier didn't dare defy Elrohir and left within seconds, fearing anymore of his rage. The Captain waited minutes until a knock came to his door. The Thalmor Ambassador, Elenwen, walked in. She saw him fiddle with papers, trying to occupy himself from the stress.

"What is it, Captain?"

"Shut the door." He ordered, "Take a seat."

She did as he suggested. Even so, Elrohir was compelled to stand up and pace around.

"We have a ...problem," He finally admitted, "The Stormcloaks invaded and successfully taken over the Capital, Solitude. It seems the Empire has been driven out."

Elenwen raised both her eyebrows, and stared at him hard. "I already know this, Captain. As well as half the country."

The Thalmor Elrohir stopped in his tracks. "Really? How did everyone find out before I did?"

The Ambassador woman shook her head in annoyance and rolled her eyes. "Well, it's my _job_ to know, for one. And not everyone is locked up in a room with only a courier to give him the news. " The Captain scoffed at her, and Elenwen continued. "But in all seriousness, yes, this is a problem. A very big problem. Our orders were to use Ulfric and the Stormcloaks to weaken the Empire when we captured him. Now it seems we have the Stormcloaks to deal with, as well. And you know how bloody unpredictable _they_ can be."

"Yes, you're right," Elrohir agreed, and continued pacing. "I never imagined the Stormcloaks as a threat...I _still_ don't. But if they were able to drive out the Empire like that..."

"We were placed in Skyrim to make sure this wouldn't happen," The Ambassador spoke up. "We let Ulfric have his little toy army for our benefit. But their numbers are growing, and they're getting stronger."

"My good girl, you wouldn't be concidering _war_ , would you?"

Elenwen gave him an odd look. "Of course not you fool. We wouldn't waste that much resource over this silly little situation. But we'll need to use some..." She groaned in annoyance. "I suppose... I could think of some things to weaken the Stormcloaks until they're out of the picture. Then we can turn to the Empire."

The Captain stopped in his tracks, and smiled at his fellow Elf. "It seems you underestimated Ulfric a great deal, my dear."

Elenwen scoffed in offense. "So says you. I did my job." She got up from her seat, ready to depart. "Lets see if you can finally do yours."

* * *

The night was peaceful in Whiterun, after the off-duty Stormcloaks finally had enough to drink and retreated to the barracks. When the streets were finally bare and everyone was asleep, two figures were waiting behind the Battle-Born house, fully clothed in un-fashioned robes. The Battle-Born doors opened quietly, and the proud Idolaf stood. He was silent and careful when closing the doors, then crept over to the two mysterious figures in waiting.

"Be quick about this, Elves," he ordered, "I don't need the Gray-Mane's holding this over our heads."

"No worries, dear friend," The cunning fox-like Bosmer mocked and gave a sly grin. "No one would surely accuse you of being a _Thalmor informant_."

"Keep your voice down! Even my own _family_ would disown me for this!" He took glanced around to make sure no one was around. "Now I wont ask you again. What do you want?"

This time the Altmer, standing tall and confident while holding hiss\ hands behind his back, spoke more professionally than his shorter shrewd friend. "Nothing we can say publicly, Mr. Battle-Born" He held out a folded note and a hefty large bag to Idolaf. "But I think _this_ would explain everything we would like from you."

Idolaf took the note and bag cautiously, noting how strange the situation seemed. He eyed them, then flipped the note open and began to look through it. Once he read, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. He would have nearly laughed, but when he looked at the disguised Thalmors, their serious expressions assured there was no joking around the situation. Idolaf proceeded to open the bag. When he saw the mass amount of gold inside, he responded by nearly dropping it.

The Altmer smiled wide. "I think that's an affirmative answer, yes?"

"With this, I could just _buy_ the damn Gray-Manes," Idolaf joked. "And if I just turn you in?"

"Well, "The Bosmer cut in menacingly, "You'd go back to your terrible life and let the Gray-Manes spit on your heels some more. No one would care if they knew the Thalmor are involved. We're expected to be. But I'm sure others would have a problem with you supporting Ulfric."

The Altmer added, "And I'm afraid, if you chose to do decline our deal, we would be forced to reveal what happened to Tharold Gray-Mane."

When both those names came up, Idolaf jumped. Tharold, the Gray-Mane's boy, was abducted and never heard from again. It was no secret that people suspected the Battle-Borns. With no proof to go on, the Battle-Borns were never questioned. Idolaf gulped, and looked at the letter again. Without looking at the Thalmor, he sighed.

"I'll do it."

* * *

'Vignar the Revered', or as late known as 'Jarl of Whiterun', sat on his throne, slouching with his fist holding up his chin in boredom. He always pictured being Jarl more exciting. At least, Balgruuf always made it seem that way. The former Jarl seemed to have gotten all the greater tasks during the Dragon Invasion and the arrival of the Dragonborn. All Vignar seemed to get were citizens complaining about stolen sweet-rolls and petty bandits raiding camps. Vignar sighed as he pretended to listen to a stand merchant complaining about a drunken bard knocking over her goods the previous evening.

"...Jarl?"

Vignar looked at his niece, who became his housecarl.

"Um...the woman?" She pointed to the complaining merchant, signaling she was done with her rant.

"Oh! Yes, yes," He waved her off, "I'll take care of it."

The merchant, obviously sensing he wasn't listening, rolled her eyes and left. Vignar got up from his seat, stretching his arms out and yawning.

"Well, I guess I can about call it a day, eh?"

"But Uncle," Olfina interjected, "We still have more people to see!"

"Listen, Olfina. If I have to hear about anymore soldiers throwing up on lawns or people complaining about their stench, I'm going to have a visit with Sheogorath in the near future." He snapped, and began to walk up the steps. "Now, if you don't mind, this old man needs rest. Head home and do the same. Oh! And Olfina?"

"Yes, Uncle?"

"Stay away from Jon Battle-Born. I mean it. I don't need to hear about any more of your 'get togethers'. Head straight home. Now."

He could hear his niece pout as he continued to walk up the steps. He nearly laughed, but was serious. The only time there should be a Gray-Mane and Battle-Born together is when there's a blade in between them.

Yawning, the new Jarl waved to the soldier guarding his room door, and walked inside. He shut the door behind him, and felt any stress he had that day was being halted until he would walk back out the next morning. Vignar changed into his night-clothes, peered through his window at both moons, and slipped underneath his covers.

What Vignar didn't know while he slept like a king, was that the guard he waved to and trusted his life with wasn't a guard at all. The false guard sat there for an hour, waiting to hear the noise of the Jarl snoring. Once he did, the man peered in both directions and silently opened the door, locking it from the inside.

Once inside, this 'guard' lifted his helm, exposing his face to only the darkness and moonlight. Through the moonlight, you could easily make out his features. He had the features of Idolaf Battle-Born.

The Battle-Born son slowly knelt down, and placed his helm on the floor quietly so not to waken the old man. He unbuckled the strap to his sword, and also was careful in placing it on the ground.

Idolaf was a Nord, and Nords weren't known for their stealth. So when he took out his poisoned-laced dagger, he wanted nothing more than to let out a battle cry and tear Vignar's face open like a wolf. But he had to be smart about this, just to protect his family.

So, the Battle-Born turned to stealth and slowly made his way towards the bed. When he finally caught eye of the the old man, who had his mouth wide open snoring like a sleeping bear, Idolaf raised his hand over the man's mouth and held his poisoned dagger up. Idolaf slammed down his hand hard on Vignar's mouth, waking him violently.

Vignar's eyes shot open, unable to scream for the guard's help for his attacker's hand was firm and strong over his mouth. All he could do was struggle under the man's weight. Idolaf put his mouth to Vignar's ear, and whispered.

"This is for Skyrim," He placed the blade on the old man's neck. "This is for the Battle-Borns."

It took one slit across the Vignar's throat to seal his fate. Idolaf kept his hand tight on the dying man's mouth, watching his foe's neck bleed out from the wound in his neck. Within a couple of minutes, 'Vignar the Revered', Jarl of Whiterun, and the proud Gray-Mane, was dead.

* * *

Word of the Gray-Mane Vignar's death traveled all across Skyrim. Everyone who knew the man mourned at the news, including the Companions, who dubbed him the name "The Revered" for great reason. Even the Empire-supporters cried out that this once treasured hero was assassinated in a terrible and cowardly manner. Everyone knew exactly who to blame.

The day Vignar's body was found, all the Battle-Borns were reported missing. Gray-Manes were outraged, vowing that every Battle-Born head would be cast on a wooden stake for vengeance. The same day, the famous Battle-Born farm was cast up into flames, and Gwendolyn, keeper of the farm, was forced to flee.

Ulfric heard the news soon after the murder happened. He was quick to realize that Idolaf wouldn't have been put up to this on his own. He didn't have the guts.

"Then who would put him up to it?" Questioned Galmar.

"Someone with enough profit and reason to persuade him," Ulfric answered, " _Thalmor scums,_ of course."

"Aye, they like to play dirty."

Ulfric Stormcloak nodded in agreement, thinking. The Thalmor didn't have to kill Vignar Gray-Mane. They would never gain anything from his death. It was a cryptic message.. The Elves were declaring war.

"They've always been sneaky," Galmar responded. "How do we get them back? I want them to taste my axe for this!"

Ulfric shook his head. He honestly didn't know what to do about the situation at the moment. In a way, it was brilliant. The fact that the Thalmor were behind the Battle-Borns, who supported the Empire, and had them kill the Stormcloak Rebellious Gray-Mane leader. It was like they where mocking him.

It didn't help that every city in Skyrim heard about the murder, and nearly plumeted into chaos over it. With news of the Dark Brotherhood coming back, everyone assumed it was the assassins. Ulfric knew better. With Vignar murdered and Battle-Borns fleeing...it just didn't sound like a Dark Brotherhood set up. Especially with Vignar being murdered right after Solitude's capture. Even if his soldiers, who also believed in the rumors, didn't. It was a problem. The Stormcloaks were getting distracted.

His thoughts were cut off quick when Mortan Stormblade burst through Ulfric's doors. He was frantic, gasping for breath.

"Talos, boy!" Galmar exclaimed, "What the hell happened?"

The younger of the three looked straight at Ulfric, and spoke quickly, loosing no time.

"There's something you need to know about Elisif."

* * *

The Stormcloaks let their guard down. That was the only way Elisif was able to escape. The guards were so wrapped up in the murder situation that they neglected checking on the former Jarl, and she caught word early of Vignar's death when two soldiers were talking about it in front of her door. The caretaker, also wrapped up in the murders, gave her food that night and forgot to lock her door. Elisif took advantage of this, sneaking out as soon as the halls were clear. She was able to sneak out and travel to the worker's corner, where if anyone saw here, no one would report it. She swiped some worker's raggedy clothing, and hid her face. After that, the not-so-bright guards were easy to walk past, and walking out of the palace undetected was a breeze.

The hard part was convincing the stagecoach to travel that far to the south. With a couple of coins in her possession, Elisif was able to offer it to the Stagecoach driver. He was reluctant to take it when she told him she wanted to go south and past the border, especially when he realized later who she was.

"I'll get in bad trouble, milady," He informed her, "Maybe even branded a traitor. It's...not that I don't want to help you escape from those damned Stormcloaks...but if they find out..."

The ride certainly wouldn't be comfortable. Not with each rock hitting the wheel, making the carriage jump every couple of feet. Even the horse's clanking was enough to drive her mad. But Elisif was determined.

"I promise, sir. Once we reach Cyrodiil I'll make sure you're paid a good deal."

That was enough for the lone man to hear, and he let the subject go. He told her he's only doing it because he never thought the Solitude invasion was right. So, the two headed to the border.  
The ride didn't last long. Elisif stared at the wilderness, which she hadn't seen for a long, long time. It was going to be a long and dull ride. She put a soft bag underneath her head for comfort against the bumpy carriage, and fell asleep.

A while after she drifted off, the horse was forced to halt.

"Aye!" The stagecoach exclaimed. He peered in front of them. Two robed figures where standing in the middle of the road, clearly not moving. They faced his direction. In the stagecoach's line of work, you learn to not ask question. But this...

One of the figures spoke up loud. "Give us the girl."

The man's eyes widen at the order and looked back at the former Jarl, who was just waking up. When he looked back at the figures and saw them walking towards them, he started to panic.

"STOP!"

But the two were persistent and marched forward. One held their hand out, and without mercy, he cast a fire spell that made the stagecoach burst into flames. The frightened horse roared in pain and was ready to run, but the other figure held his hand out as well and cast a spell that drained the poor animal's life.

The two begun walking towards the stagecoach once more. One of them confirmed, "She is alive." Both were ready to change that.

Both stopped when they saw a familiar shadow in the distance. Passed the flames, a large figure stood. It walked hastily from the fire, holding the unconscious body of Elisif the Fair.

"It's him!" One of them yelled, and pulled out a dagger. "It's Ulfric!"

Ulfric Stormcloaks knelt down with Elisif cradled in his arms.

It wasn't hard finding the escaped former Jarl. Mortan had done his job well, and warned Ulfric of her escape before she had even gotten into the carriage. It took only a little bit to catch up with the stagecoach as they hid in the woods.

He gave the two figures a good cold stare, challenging them to come after him. Thinking they outnumbered him, both drew out their weapons, and began to sprint towards the King.

"FOR ULFRIC!"

A loud battle cry echoed from the forest, making the two halt completely in their tracks and search all around for the source. Before they could even do that, one of them was knocked away, his body split into two by the blade of Galmar Stone-Fist. The other jumped back and yelled in fear, only to instantly be pierced by a sharp blade from behind. He fell to his knees and died seconds later. Stormblade retrieved his sword from the body.

"Is she dead?" Galmar asked. Ulfric shook his head, laying her on the ground. She would be fine, until she woke up. Then she might very well be dead, he would make sure.

"Check the bodies."

Both Generals did what they were told, and looked at the bodies they killed.

"Elves," Mortan proclaimed, "Not just Elves. Thalmor."


End file.
